


Home Is a Five Letter Name (And It Has Always Been Yours)

by queencuba



Series: The Jonsa Agenda [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Background Arya/Gendry, F/M, Jon Snow Has PTSD, Post finale fix it fic, Tormund is the ultimate Jonsa shipper, and finds his way home back to Sansa, but works through it, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21990034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queencuba/pseuds/queencuba
Summary: The letter is addressed solely to his first name, no surname following. He covers his face as he laughs, truly laughs for the first time in he doesn’t even know because this is relief. This is understanding. Sansa understands him and doesn’t call him anything but Jon because if he’s truly honest with himself he has only ever been Jon, just Jon, his entire life. Damn any name that’s ever tried to tether itself to him. He damns them all. He is Jon. Finally, that is enough.___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Jon travels beyond the wall and copes with everything that has happened but realizes home isn't ahead of him, it's always been a person.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: The Jonsa Agenda [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583464
Comments: 8
Kudos: 109





	Home Is a Five Letter Name (And It Has Always Been Yours)

_This is the true north,_ Jon repeats to himself, to the thick snow, the canopy of trees that block the winter sun. _This is the true north,_ **_this_ ** _is the true north._

He repeats this mantra in the way men without religion pray: hopeful it will eventually stick. 

The corner of his eye catches a flash of blue and for a moment his insides are ice. He fights the urge to shit, to grab the hilt of Longclaw, then he is fire, but the thought of fire tightens his throat. He pushes that away, compartmentalizes that in which he is still remarkably unprepared to face. His cheeks flame in relief, in exhaustion. There are no walkers, just Tormund staring. 

Jon understands that Tormud is a man who stares. Jon has even come to admire the unflinching blue of his friend’s eyes, how they are honest, and without the need for approval. 

Jon no longer admires this in his friend. 

He is now the object of his friend’s eyes that somehow can detect even the smallest lie, and Jon wants to kick his heels into the flanks of his horse and put distance between himself and whatever Tormund has to say. 

Jon does not. 

“You’ve been staring,” Jon states, unable still to meet his friend’s eyes, and Jon can’t decide what he is avoiding: the color blue or honesty?

Tormund maintains his stare as he drinks. The wine drips into his beard, longer than it has ever been, and his belch echoes. Snow falls off a branch. 

“You chose the north.” 

“Is that a question or a statement?” Jon asks, his hands aching. He stretches his fingers, rolls his wrists. It occurs to him that this is the longest he has gone without swinging his sword. 

“You could have stayed in your black castle–”

 _Castle Black,_ Jon corrects silently. 

“– you could have chosen to lead. People love you.” Tormund’s eyes are on him again, on the side of his face, on the scars on his face. “You could have chosen many things….” 

Jon’s nose twitches; he smells fire. His stomach turns, the smell is wretched. The smell of burning hair, of melting flesh, of burning stone. He can feel scales under his hands, his ears ring with screams that he fears will never become distant. His eyes water, his body swaying. Jon could lean over his horse right now, vomit, and no one would blink. He is no king, no commander, _no brother,_ no lover, not even a bastard anymore. He is no one. 

Jon sucks in a large breath of air, his head sweltering with sweat. 

_Will heat always feel this way?_ Jon’s head pounds, feeling suffocated. He thinks about tossing his furs and cursing them. 

_Fire cannot kill a dragon._ Jon’s forehead throbs. His hands ache. 

He vomits. 

Leaping off his horse, tripping over his feet, his knees fall softly through thick snow. He grabs a fistful of snow, rubs it over his face, and laughs at the irony. 

_Snow. Snow. Snow._ Jon vomits again. _When the snows fall, and the white winds blow…._

A hand slaps his back repeatedly. 

“Let it out.”

Jon has never heard Tormund speak so softly. His friend kneels beside him, Ghost joining. The direwolf’s one ear twitches as he licks the side of Jon’s face. 

The snow doesn’t numb Jon’s aching hands. His face still feels inflamed, he feels like he’s standing before an open fire, before open jaws. From some deep, secret cave inside his body comes a rippling scream. It tears through his throat, pounds against his teeth. He screams until his voice cracks. Then he cries. 

Jon cries as he did as a small boy who scraped his knees for the first time, knowing no one would come; as he did when he overheard Lady Catelyn call him bastard; as he did after his father died ( _uncle now)_ ; as he did after Robb died; as he did holding a dead Ygritte; as he did in his private quarters after Rickon’s hand just barely grabbed his own; as he did with a dagger in his hand, unsure if it was regicide or just murder or mercy. 

Jon weeps for a very long time in the silent wood. 

Then he stands, mounts his horse, and he and Tormund do not speak of decisions made. They do not speak at all. 

As they rode in silence, Jon will never know that Tormund thought about kissed by fire Sansa, the lingering gazes they had, and how Jon Snow truly knows nothing. 

* * *

Jon has a hut of his own on the outskirts of the makeshift village. He’s left alone, mostly. He keeps to himself, and while everyone gathers around fires laughing and sharing mead, he sits in the snow with his head hung. Tormund joins him often, and sometimes there is the faintest hint of a smile on his face and a reverberating chest with an almost laugh. 

No one knows where to go, where to make their homes, but there's an air of excitement that Jon can see very clearly amongst the Wildlings. For the first time, they have unlimited options. There are no more Others or White Walkers to fear. The tribes are as unified as they can be, with what little is left of them. People are imperfect and the darker parts of them are meant to bicker and fight, which is why when Jon hears the clanging of swords, the sharp singing of steal against steal makes his body tremble and his headache. He runs and runs and runs until his legs shake and knees fall. He doesn’t understand this torment inside for he’s been through worse. He’s killed too many people to count. He’s bled his entire body out. He’s killed men he admired. The worst of all is through it all, despite it all, he’s lived. He’s lived. He’s lived. With every sob and scream Jon pounds on his chest. 

_I lived._ He sobs. He pounds his chest.

 _I lived._ He sobs. He pounds his chest.

 _I lived._ He sobs. He pounds his chest.

 _I lived._ He sobs. He pounds his chest. 

He repeats until his chest is numb. He breathes again without screaming or crying and he wonders if there will come a time when he will be free of both. Slowly, painfully, Jon stands on his feet. He turns around and walks back the way he ran, but his mind never quiets. He thinks, for the first time, of the people he left behind. Davos. Arya. 

He swallows. 

_Sansa_. 

He feels warm again, a flame blooming under his breast, up to his face. This time he isn’t nauseous or revolted. 

Jon breathes. 

A raven comes in the early morning. Jon doesn’t sleep well anymore and ironically doesn’t lose sleep over the sleep he’s lost. He can’t bring himself to care about anything other than sunrises lately. He is enamored with the way the soft oranges mixing with deep reds look against blinding white snow. Survival is still a rotten taste he is unsure how to swallow, but little moments like beautiful sunrises ease small tensions away. 

He’d been awake for hours when the raven lands. He looks down at the vexatious squawking raven with a scroll tied around its bony leg and wonders how in every hell it managed to find him. He wonders as he unwraps the scroll, but then he notices the raven has three eyes. His breath hitches and eyes water. 

“Bran,” Jon whispers brokenly, his fingers twitching to reach out and touch the bird’s black feathers. 

The bird blinks once then flies away. 

Stunned, Jon wonders if the sudden tightness in his chest is a relief or a burden. Sighing deeply, he looks down at the scroll in his hand, sealed with a dark grey direwolf sigil. Once again, he is breathless. His fingers shake as he cracks the seal, slowly unfurling the paper. The smooth, elegant script is familiar and instantly instills a painful longing. 

_Jon,_

The letter is addressed solely to his first name, no surname following. He covers his face as he laughs, truly laughs, for the first time in he doesn’t even know because _this_ is relief. _This_ is understanding. Sansa understands him and doesn’t call him anything but Jon because if he’s truly honest with himself he has only ever been Jon, _just_ Jon, his entire life. Damn any name that’s ever tried to tether itself to him. He damns them all. He is Jon. Finally, that is enough. 

He continues reading. 

_The people of the North are healing. They come together to rebuild their homes and Winterfell, too, begins its slow ascent to restoration. Arya has taken off with Gendry Baratheon if you can believe. She asked me, “Sister, what is West of Westeros?” I told her I didn’t know, that no one did, and that was when she told me, “I’m going to find out.” I miss her every day, but she has found peace and purpose and this is all I could ever want for her._

Jon can feel the pause in Sansa’s letter. He smiles as he reads about Arya, his brow furrows from surprise about Gendry traveling with her, but he supposes that they all have survived too much and perhaps lived too little to not go where the heart desires. He finds it hard to breathe after that thought and clears his throat. 

_Where ever you are, I hope you are finding the same things. This will always be your home. Come back when you wish, when you are ready._

_Signed,_

_Sansa Stark, Queen in the North._

The sun has fully risen into the blue sky once he’s done reading the letter. He ponders, for a moment, about the idea of home. This hut he has, comfortable and quiet, suddenly seems too empty, too lonely. There is nothing but years of snowscape before him, but what is he heading towards? Whatever he’s been searching for, whatever he hoped to find beyond the wall, he hasn’t found yet. The life ahead of him, traveling and settling only for a few moons at a time suddenly seems tiring, irrelevant to the belonging he feels tethering him back to Winterfell, back to Sansa. Gingerly, he puts the letter in his breast pocket, close to his heart. He stands quickly, snapping his fingers for Ghost to follow. He finds Tormund in a huddle around a fire. Jon finds he doesn’t flinch as he nears the heat. Tormund sees Jon near, sees the determined look in his eyes, and grins. 

“You’ve finally figured it out!” Tormund cackles, his arms open wide, hands clasping together in loud claps. 

Tormund stands to clap Jon on his shoulders. The big man with a bigger heart gathers Jon in a tight hug, and though Jon knows where he belongs, he feels a pang in his chest for his friend. Jon stands back and looks at Tormund, sadly yet also joyfully. 

Tormund nods, seeming to understand as well. “We’ll see each other again,” Tormund promises. “But first, you’ve got to get the girl.” 

Jon laughs as mounts his horse and Tormund smacks the hind, sending Jon off with cheers and laughter. The freezing wind bites at his cheeks and runs coolingly through his hair. Ghost sprints beside him, his tongue hanging out his mouth. 

They ride through the night and the entire next day. Jon is exhausted as is his horse and Ghost. He stops only for water and to feed his horse, impatient as he knows Winterfell is near. 

He arrives late in the evening. He can’t see the archers he knows watch from atop, and neither can they see him until he’s panting at the front gate, his heart beating right through his chest. Someone calls down to him, asking who he is and what business he has with the Queen and the castle. Jon’s face splits into a grin. He shakes his head and wants to answer back that even he isn’t sure, that all he knows is he’s home and to let him in, damn it!

He doesn’t say any of this of course. 

“I don’t believe it! That’s Jon Snow!” Another archer exclaims. 

The gate immediately rises with loud clanging and people are swarming him. He shakes their hands and doesn’t answer their questions about where he’s been. He is surprised to see this sort of welcome. After he killed….he gulps. He can’t bring himself to say _her_ name yet. But, after he killed her and was exiled, he was sure he’d be hated for as long as history knew his name, but he supposes that _she_ was never their queen, and the North as only ever belonged to them. 

The gathering crowd grows silent. Whispers start to spread and he overhears someone say the queen is here. Jon’s face flames, his hands sweat, and he is sure every man and woman can hear the staccato beat of his heart. 

He pushes through them, moving with ease through the parting crowd. Time is slow, his arms and legs heavy. He thinks he’s dreaming for a moment, but Jon hasn’t dreamt in ages and Sansa, with snow falling on her fire hair, grinning with tears in her eyes is better than any dream Jon could conjure on his own. He runs to her and the distance between them shuts with finality as they crash into each other, arms grasping at the other. 

He softly grasps her face between his hands. His thumbs smooth over her reddening cheeks and she nuzzles her face further into his hands. Sansa smells of lemons and lavender and freshly fallen snow.

He doesn’t think about what he does next, he doesn’t need to. He presses his lips to hers, and in an instant, Jon never has to question what home is again. Sansa sighs into the kiss and he’s sure he does too. They stay like this for however long they need, and neither count the time. 

When he does pull away, resting his forehead against hers, their noses brushing, he understands now though the cold has its own sort of heat, and he was always meant for winter. 


End file.
